EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS III: The Madness of Eddie Wilson
by Dan Sickles
Summary: First there was EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS, about a rock and roll guy who had it all and vanished into the night. Then there was EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS II: EDDIE LIVES about how Eddie Wilson reclaimed his fame, only to find it stale and bitter. This . . . this is the final chapter. Eddie purifies rock and roll his way. I do not own Eddie Wilson. I'm just a dreamer!


EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS III: The Madness of Eddie Wilson

_In the beginning, there was EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS, about a rock and roll guy named Eddie who had it all and disappeared into the night. Then there was EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS II: EDDIE LIVES about how Eddie Wilson came back to reclaim his fame, only to find it bitter and vanish once again. This . . . is the final chapter. I do not own Eddie and The Cruisers. I'm just a dreamer. Please comment nicely!_

Somewhere in darkest Africa, with a smug, oily smile on his face, Bono of U2 was handing out free CD's of his latest album when suddenly . . . . locusts! A plague of locusts! Darkening the sky, the ferocious insects descended in clouds, and then suddenly the television picture went blank.

"Damn it!" shouted the president of Megalopolis records. "We've lost Bono, we've lost Chris Martin, we've lost Trent Reznor. Who . . . or what . . . is killing the most politically enlightened children of rock and roll!?"

Whispers of fear, echoing down the halls of money and power.

"Eddie Wilson . . . Eddie Wilson . . . Eddie Wilson . . ."

Eddie Wilson! Brutal survivor from the red-meat days of rock and roll. Eddie Wilson! Leering and loutish, greasy and grimy, sneering at the modern rock and roll world, sneering at the decadence and the sanctimonious piety, the celebrity benefits and the vegan designer brunches served in the underground caverns of the corrupt and cynically vegetarian. Eddie Wilson spotted in London, slitting Chris Martin's throat in a men's bathhouse. Eddie Wilson, spotted in darkest Africa, reviving the unspeakable cannibal cults of the Congo, while shrieking "I Put A Spell On You" and hopping on one leg for hours like Screaming Jay Hawkins.

"You . . . Sal D'Amato. Yes, we want you! One million dollars in cash, if you can lure Eddie out of his crypt . . . before he kills anymore vegan, politically correct, sexually nonthreatening A-list rock stars who date fashion models and maintain all the most tiresome pretensions."

Sal D'Amato, roaming the night, armed only with his bass guitar. How does a guy kill his best friend? "Eddie . . . Eddie . . . I know you're out there, Eddie. Around the corner . . . down the block . . . not far away at all!"

But Eddie Wilson's rampage continued, with ISIS terrorists humming "On The Dark Side" in the latest execution video and Iranian Ayatollahs demanding the return of those "Wild Summer Nights."

Just like in V FOR VENDETTA, the entertainment of the entire world was brought to a standstill as the hoarse voice of Eddie Wilson crooned behind a Lone Ranger Mask.

"Come on kids, you know you want it! Brutal violence! Crude sex! Motorcycles! Fast Cars! Red Meat! Rock and Roll!" The voice turned sad and thoughtful. "And who took rock and roll away from us? Well, you know who they are. The ones who wanted to save us. The ones who wanted to enlighten us. The ones who said it was all about doing good, not about feeling good. The millionaires turned martyrs, the superstars turned saints. But tonight Eddie Wilson promises you this. At least one of our rock and roll saints will earn his . . . stairway to heaven."

Grainy footage surfaced from darkest Africa, footage of Bono tied and bound, a knife to his throat, a terrorist in a black leather jacket and an Arabic headscarf issuing garbled threats.

"Sing it, bitch. You know you want to. Sing Louie, Louie. SING IT!"

The Irishman rolled his eyes, sweat pouring down his thin, ascetic, Roman Catholic face. "Uh, Louie, Louie, we . . . oh, dear . . . uh, we gotta go." The shining blade pressed to his throat made the U2 front man's voice into a servile whine of submissive groveling fear. Desperately the slick little manipulator tried to inject some note of lust, conjure up some connection to the music he had emasculated, the audience he had enslaved. But it was no use. Bono was utterly unable to master the complexities of "Louie Louie" by the Kingsmen. He died screaming, his blood spurting all over the camera, while long-vanished Eddie Wilson laughed maniacally.

And all over the world, the audience exploded in cheers.


End file.
